Her Highness and the Highlander: A Princess Brides Romance (6 page)

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

Slowly he withdrew his palm.

As soon as he did, she threw herself against his chest, trembling with relief when
his arms moved to enfold her. Closing her eyes, she burrowed into his warmth and strength
as she tried to forget the frightening images that lingered in her mind.

He said nothing, seemingly content to let her cling. Idly, he began to stroke her
hair in long, easy glides that soothed her frayed nerves and slowed the pace of her
frantically beating heart.

“Better?” he questioned at length.

“Mm-hmm,” she said with a contented sigh.

Breathing deeply, she took comfort in his clean, sleep-warmed scent. The fabric of
his shirt was soft against her cheek, while his chest provided a wonderfully firm
cushion beneath.

I never want to move again,
she thought.
How blissful to just sit here like this forever.

Renewed weariness swept through her, exhaustion seeping back into her muscles and
bones as the last of her night terrors began to fade.

Sleepy and warm.

She was so delightfully sleepy and warm.

And safe.

Safe with Daniel MacKinnon.

Nothing could harm her when she was with him, not even her dreams.

She smiled to herself, drowsy and on the verge of sleep.

Dimly, she felt him ease her backward onto the bed and settle her head against her
pillow.

He started to move away, but she reached out to stop him.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, so sleepy she wondered if she was already dreaming again.

“I’ll only be a few feet away,” he told her.

“It’s too far. Stay with me.”

She sensed the sudden tension in his body and heard the long silence.

“Stay,” she murmured again. “You’ll be more comfortable in the bed.”

A wry, silvery chuckle filled the air. “You’ve the right of that, lass. Even so—”

“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she whispered. “You’ll keep me from being afraid.
Don’t go.”

Another long silence followed before she heard him sigh. “All right, Your Highness,
but don’t blame me come morning.”

Blame him for what?
she wondered drowsily.

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he stretched out next to her. He pulled the covers
over them both, then settled back, leaving a narrow width of space between their bodies.

Rolling onto her side, she snuggled against him, her head pillowed on the broad expanse
of his shoulder. His chest moved up and down in silent laughter as he curved an arm
over her back and drew her close.

“Just don’t forget whose idea this was,” he remarked.

She’d fought the increasing lure of sleep too long for his words to make sense. Relaxing
fully for the first time since her entire world had been turned upside down so many
terrifying hours ago, she tumbled into a deep, dreamless oblivion.

Daniel stared into the darkness, far too aware of the young woman slumbering so trustingly
in his arms.

Too trustingly.

It was reckless of her to put so much faith in a stranger, yet here she was, lying
beside him as though she had known him all her life. Once again, he thought about
the way another man might have taken advantage of the situation. After all, she was
beautiful and much too conveniently close at hand. How easy it would be to lean over
and kiss her. An unscrupulous rogue would have done that and a great deal more, whether
she desired his attentions or not. But he supposed her instincts had led her in the
right direction, since he was an honorable man at his core.

He also supposed he ought to have refused her and gone back to his own bed, but how
could he when she’d gazed at him with such open entreaty in her melting dark eyes?
Usually he wasn’t so easily swayed by a pretty face, but there was something about
her that reached down deep and found the compassion he had learned to bury long ago.

If only his reaction to her went no further than compassion, then it would be an easy
matter to sleep here at her side. But honorable or not, he couldn’t ignore the fact
that she was a very desirable female—a female he did not dare have.

One night,
he thought.
I can lie with her for a single night with no harm done to either of us.

When morning arrived, he would continue on his way home, while she continued on to
hers, wherever it might be. He frowned at the thought, wondering how she would fare
on her journey. But his compassion could be expected to extend only so far. He didn’t
have either the time or the inclination to nursemaid some lost, frightened girl for
days on end. Instead,
he would give her a bit of money to see her on her way, then say his good-byes. It
was the right thing to do, for them both.

Telling himself he was satisfied with his decision, he closed his eyes and willed
himself to sleep. But try as he might, many long minutes passed before slumber finally
claimed him.

M
ercedes awakened to a flood of early morning sunshine, the room made pleasantly warm
by the gently rising summer heat outside. Soon her lady’s maid would be along to chase
her from her bed. Mercedes would then enjoy her usual breakfast of toast and fruit
and tea while the other young woman bustled around the room laying out her clothes
and preparing her bath. Once Mercedes was dressed and her belongings repacked, they
would climb back into the coaches and resume their journey home.

Resume their journey home…

Mercedes’s eyes snapped wide, the spare surroundings of the inn bedchamber coming
into sharp focus.

So it hadn’t been a dream after all. Instead, it had been a nightmare from which she
wished she could awake. Tears she hadn’t been able to shed before filled her eyes,
sliding silently over her cheeks and chin as she realized that her maid would not
be coming to attend her. She would never do so again because she was dead; they were
all dead.

A quick knock sounded at the door.

She sat up with a jolt, as though startled by a gunshot.
Before she had time to speak, the door opened and the inn’s serving maid entered bearing
a well-laden tray.

“I’ve brought yer breakfast,” the girl announced as she crossed to the table without
bothering to glance Mercedes’s way. “Good Scottish oats and a pot of strong black
tea. There’s milk too, if ye’ve a liking for it. Personally, I can’t abide having
mae meal watered down, but then ye’re English, so I suppose it’s only tae be expected.”

Mercedes opened her mouth to say that she was not English but just as quickly realized
there was no point in attempting to explain. Instead, she lifted the sheet and used
a corner to quietly wipe the dampness from her face. She would have preferred a handkerchief,
but she had none at present. In point of fact, she no longer had any personal belongings
to her name, not even the nightgown she was wearing.

She looked for her robe where she had left it lying across the end of the bed, but
it wasn’t there. Instead, she found the garment draped over the back of a nearby chair.
How had it gotten there?

Suddenly a fresh flood of memories rushed upon her and she gasped. Her gaze darted
first to the floor and then to the bed’s spare pillow lying so innocently next to
her own.

The major’s bedding was gone, but not the slight, incriminating dent in the pillow.
In her mind’s eye, his nocturnal visit seemed so much like an illusion, jumbled in
among all her nightmares and lingering fears. Yet there lay the evidence, the head-shaped
dip that clearly showed the reality of his having come to her room last night. She
was certain if she lifted the pillow to her nose, she would be able to catch a hint
of his heady masculine scent lingering on the linens—a sultry richness that had wrapped
comfortingly around her as she’d finally dozed into a blissful sleep last night.

Heat surged into her face and she raised her palms to cover her cheeks. She darted
a look to the side, grateful when she saw that the serving maid was occupied drawing
open the curtains, her back turned to the room.

Heavens above, did I do what I think I did last night?
she mused as she lowered her hands to her lap and bowed her head. If she wasn’t misremembering,
she had actually begged the major to stay with her—not once but twice, insisting the
second time that he actually sleep with her in her bed.

She had only a vague recollection of their last conversation, and then everything
went blank—everything, that is, except for the unsettling memory of curling herself
against him as sinuously as a cat, her head pressed to his chest, as she fell into
a contented slumber.

“Don’t blame me come morning.”

From out of nowhere, his warning replayed itself in her head, the honeyed tones of
his voice rounded with ill-suppressed laughter.

And now here it was—morning. As for any apportionment of blame, she could hold only
herself accountable.

Yet nothing had actually happened, had it?

All she and the major had done was sleep in the same room—and for a few hours, the
same bed—because she had been frightened.

Of course, should the facts ever become known, she would be ruined. But she wouldn’t
worry about such matters now. There was no reason anyone need ever know…she hoped.

“You’d best eat yer meal afore it grows cold,” the maid said as she turned away from
the windows. “I’ll be back with yer new clothes in a few ticks and bring a fresh pitcher
of water so ye can wash.”

“Thank you. That is most kind.”

The girl walked to the door.

“One thing more before you go,” Mercedes said, stopping the young woman on the threshold.
“Have you seen the major yet this morning? Major MacKinnon? I wish to have a word
with him.”

The maid arched a surprised brow. “Well, then ye’d best not tarry, since he’s fixing
to leave. Called for his horse not ten minutes past.”

He was leaving without so much as a word? He was abandoning her? How dare he? Under
ordinary circumstances she would have let him go since he clearly did not wish to
remain, but nothing about her situation was ordinary. All her life, she’d been safe
and protected both at the academy and her father’s palace. But now she had no one.
If the major left, she would be utterly alone and vulnerable. No, galling as it might
be to lower her pride, she needed someone on whom she could count, and the major was
her only choice.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

The servant’s eyes grew wide. “In his room, I think. Seein’ to the last of his packing.”

Flinging back the covers, Mercedes sprang out of bed and reached for her robe. She
was still pushing her arms through the sleeves as she flew out the door and into the
hallway.

Daniel crammed a shirt into his travel-worn brown leather valise, trying to arrange
the contents so the latches and buckles would close.

It was times like these that he missed the practical efficiency of his batman, Fergus,
who’d had the uncanny ability to fit any item, no matter how large, into a small,
manageably compact arrangement. He’d used to joke that Fergus could have found a way
to pack an elephant in a portmanteau if given the task.

But at war’s end, he’d had no choice but to relinquish Fergus’s excellent services.
Not because the other man didn’t wish to continue in his employ, but rather because
a retired major and dispossessed laird had little need of a full-time valet.

The Laird MacKinnon.

To a few old men at home, he might still be known as such, but it was a worthless
title and had been for more than the whole of his life. The land over which his grandfather
and his grandfather’s father had once proudly stood guardian was gone, confiscated
and divided among the English conquerors after the Jacobite massacre at Culloden.

The grand stone castle that had once been the seat of their power and wealth was no
more than a ruin now—his family luckier than many to have taken up residence in an
old crofter’s cottage that they had since turned into a creditable home.

The one constant in his childhood had been his father’s bitter, unswerving hatred
for the English. Daniel could hear him even now as he’d railed red-faced against English
injustice, English atrocities.

When the time came, Daniel’s decision to purchase a commission in the “damned Sassenach
Army” had not been an easy one. The fact that he had joined a Scots-only regiment
had made no difference to his father at all. Highlanders they might be, his father
had fumed, but they were fighting on the English side, and the English side was always
the wrong side. No amount of reasoning or persuasion could change his opinion.

“Traitor!”
his father had shouted at him as he’d left.
“Dishonorable turncoat!”

As for his mother, she’d stood by in silent misery, her careworn cheeks wet with tears,
her eyes begging him not to leave, even if she understood his reason for it.

In spite of the rift, he’d held fast to his decision. He had no great love for the
English himself, but there’d been nothing for him in Skye. Why couldn’t his father
have understood that? The idea of studying the law made him shudder, and the notion
of him as a clergyman was so absurd as to be laughable. Fishing wasn’t a gentleman’s
occupation; neither was raising sheep. As for farming, one could only manage a few
crops for the table, certainly not enough to make a living wage.

No, in spite of a few lingering regrets—most especially the fact that he had not been
able to mend his differences with his father before his death—he knew he’d chosen
the right path—the only path that made sense for him.

But that life was done now too and he had his future to decide. Being home again would
help him do it—or at least he hoped it would.

Pulling the wadded-up shirt out of his valise again, he shook it out so he could attempt
to fold it in a more travel-worthy way. As he did, a thick vellum envelope fell out
of the luggage and onto the floor. Bending, he picked it up, reading once more the
engraved direction on its front.